CHAPTER 117
The silence that followed the opening of the door was different from the silence that had plagued the room for the last day. This silence was alive. It was heavy, electric, and smelled of the storm brewing between them.
Lucian didn't step inside immediately. He stayed anchored in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh light of the corridor.
From Isabella's position on the bed, he looked like a dark god. The shadows of the hallway played across the sharp, lethal angles of his face, highlighting the hollows of his cheeks and the dangerous, swirling crimson of his eyes.
Isabella's hand, still clutching the cluster of grapes, trembled. She wanted to say something—anything—to reclaim the defiance she had been nursing like a flame. She wanted to tell him she hated the grapes. She wanted to tell him to stop hiding. But her vocal cords felt like they had been fused together.
